


A thousand new paths

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-06
Updated: 2007-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal





	A thousand new paths

_I dreamed a thousand new paths...  
I woke and walked my old one._ \-- Chinese Proverb

 _February 27, 2006  
4:46 am_

Pete woke up to a cacaphony of pain, threading through his bones and hovering over his skin. His throat in particular seemed to be nearly raw and he was only vaguely surprised to find a tube running into one of his nostrils. It wasn't uncomfortable but he was very aware of it. He struggled to open his left eye but it felt sullen and ponderous; so he let it be.

He turned his head ever so slightly on the pillow and saw his sister curled uncomfortably in a seat near a tall window, her hair messy and large dark circles under her eyes. It was the state of her hair that alarmed Pete the most. He tried to say something, to ask her how she managed to leave her hair like that, but the damned tube seemed to take his voice and twist it to into dark submission. He must have made some movement or sound though, because Hilary woke up slowly; she stared at him, her eyes getting wider and wider, dark in her unusually pale face.

"Pete." Her voice sounded as if she was trying not to be hopeful, as if she felt she was still dreaming. "You awake?"

Pete blinked at her, then nodded. Hilary smiled, biting her lip against tears. She unfurled herself and then came over to place a soft kiss on his forehead.

"Give me a couple minutes." She walked to the door and then turned before she opened it. The circles were so very dark under her eyes. "Be here when we come back?"

Confused, Pete nodded again. She smiled, the tears spilling onto her cheeks before she slipped out the door.

 _8:22 am_  
He had been in the coma for a few days and the doctors had been considering to put a temporary tracheostomy tube in his neck, instead of the endotracheal one down his nose. His mother watched, her fingers trembling against her lips, as the nurse removed the tape and the tube. His father sat on the window-ledge, squashed in companionably with Joe; he could see his brother flitting outside the door, full of nervous energy. Andy stood beside his mother, almost leaning on her as if to shore her up; and Hilary was right there beside him, her sharp eyes fixed on the nurse's quick hands.

"You want to know about Patrick," his father said softly as soon as the tube was out. Pete breathed deeply through the oxygen mask that the nurse put over his face. He coughed, trying to free his voice. "You remember the accident, Petey."

His father had this way of talking to him, hypnotic statements more than questions, designed to dredge through his memories and bring the right ones to light. Maybe his father had him programmed, or something, because he _did_ start to remember; a winding, down-hill road, narrow and slick in a downpour of rain. Daylights of oncoming traffic. An argument.

 _...well, I don't want you to say that! You're so full of words, I don't want to hear that, because you always hurt the ones you love..._

Pete had a flash of Patrick's face in his jumbled memory; blue eyes wide and accusing, his face flushed with anger. There seemed to be a skip in his recollection, a horrible jolt full of screams and broken glass; and Patrick's eyes, still wide, but blank.

"Oh god," Pete moaned, hoarse voice muffled even more by the oxygen mask. "Oh god, _Patrick_. Patrick."

Joe closed his eyes and rubbed his hands over them, a dry forlorn sound. Andy kept leaning against Pete's mother, now needing the support himself, and watched the birds outside.

 _March 16, 2006  
2:24 pm_

Pete stood at the foot of the grave. He stared at the headstone as if his gaze could erase it completely and he felt the world start to slip, slide drunkenly from his mind. A hand was suddenly firm on his shoulder; the world straightened itself as Andy took his arm the way a man would hold that of a frail old woman.

"Hey, Stump," Pete whispered and Andy's fingers tightened around his forearm. "Hey, kid, how they shaking?"

A bird called lovingly to its mate in the small copse of trees beyond the cemetary and the wind seemed to whisper a sweet tenor in Pete's ear. _I don't want to hear the words. Do what you have to do, but do right by me._

"I _was_ going to do right by you," Pete hissed desperately to the wind and it fell silent. The bird called again and Pete hated it for being so happy. "Come back to me," Pete muttered. Andy started to pull him away, but Pete stood firm. "Come back to me."

The world tilted again and Andy couldn't seem to hold on, apparently, because everything skidded into black.

*  
 _March 18, 2006  
1:32 pm_

"I don't see anything wrong in the scans," the doctor said in a gentle voice. This doctor was a good friend of his father's and the senior Wentz had spent hours yelling outside Pete's bedroom door until Pete had agreed to go to the hospital. "I think these fainting spells are...traumatic episodes."

"I get headaches too. Bad ones," Pete said dully. They usually ocurred right before Pete would have a vivid dream about Patrick; he swore he dreamed in technicolour when it came to Patrick. He would feel the soft slide of Patrick's hair against his arm, Patrick's lashes against his cheek. He would press his fingers in the soft skin over Patrick's hipbones and moan at the heated stroke of a tongue against the hollow of his clavicle; he would awake in sheer delight because Patrick was there with him. Then the euphoria would fade, like cold mist in a high wind and he would stare at the ceiling of his childhood bedroom and blink back his tears.

"I can prescribe something..." the doctor said faintly and Pete could almost feel his mother frown beside him. "Something for the headaches?"

But the pain brought Patrick, clear as day, back to Pete's mind. Just for a short time, but it was so heavenly.

"I'll live," he said.

*  
 _April 27, 2006  
9:43 pm_

This headache was the very worst one so far, so painful that it hurt to breathe through his nostrils. He was reduced to dragging in sharp inhales through his mouth, curled on his side. He could hear his mother down the hall, talking to Andrew, their voices filtering through the walls and sticking sharp pins into the extreme prickled mess of his headache. He would bear it though. He would go through it, no matter how much it was killing him, squeezing his brain into a harsh clenched mass, he would bear it because he would dream of Patrick. He focused his mind on the way Patrick would look at him when he was trying to be funny in interviews, a sort of wry amusement. He fixated on the curve of Patrick's mouth, the way it tilted up slightly at the corners right before Pete kissed it.

"Oh, shit," Pete murmured as the headache seemed to creep down his entire body, locking up muscles. Pete tried to cry out. He tried to call for help, but the world kept slipping, skittering viciously and it tilted over into the dark.

*  
 _February 22, 2006  
9:37 am_

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Pete breathed, opening his eyes and grasping tightly onto to the handhold over his window. Patrick's hands were white-knuckled on the steering-wheel. "This is not about her. It's about you and me."

 _He's going to say its always been about him and I. Always._

"Its _always_ been about you and me. Always, Pete, and fuck you if you're just now realising that." Patrick took a hairpin corner a bit too fast and the back of the car fishtailed dangerously. Patrick reined it in and spared Pete a quick scathing glance. "Sometimes I hate you."

The rain was falling in sheets, slowing them up, but they'd still be early for the television interview, they had time...and maybe...maybe Pete had just enough time.

"Most times I love you," Pete said. _He's going to hit the wheel with his fist, Patrick always had a temper. I've been here before. I've been here before--_

Patrick let out a sound of sheer disgust and punched the steering-wheel.

"Don't say that! You say it like it means nothing!"

"It means something to me! Fuck!"

 _Oh fuck, there's the corner, that corner and the truck, Patrick watch the fucking ROAD--_

"Well, I don't want you to say that! You're so full of words, I don't want to hear that, because you always hurt the ones you love--"

"No!" Pete yelled, grabbing onto the wheel and wrenching; his headache was back, because he hadn't done this, not _before_ , or rather, not _yet_ , and the truck still ran into Patrick's side of the car. They still were smashed against the guardrails, but not tipped over it, not rolling over and over down the steep incline..not like _before_. Or _that other time_. There was screaming and Pete noted vaguely that it was a woman who was a passenger in the small truck; there was broken glass settling into his lap. Patrick was slumped right up against him, a terrifyingly small pile of muscle and blood..but Patrick was still breathing.

*

"It was too late for him," the doctor said, his voice sending shockwaves through Pete's body. There was someone making a whole lot of outrageous noise, turning over furniture one-handedly in the small cheerful hospital lounge and with a sick feeling, Pete realised it was himself. His father had to help hold him down for the sedative, his own hot tears dropping onto the top of Pete's head.

"He keeps saying 'it happened again'," Pete heard his father murmur to the doctor, later as Pete lay curled on his side in the bed, his broken arm cradled against him. He wasn't in a coma, but he might as well might have been. "I don't know what that means."

"The scans we made of his brain shows some abnormal activity, so we're going to do some tests. There may have been some--"

Pete tuned them out. He was busy wishing for a headache, but he wasn't too sure why.

*

 _February 22, 2006  
9:15 am_

"I said, get in the car. You're not making us late again...Andy and Joe are there already."

 _Don't get in that car. I don't know why, I don't remember why, but don't get in that car._

"Let's stay here. You and me, we have to talk, right? Let's stay here and talk, Andy and Joe can do that tv thing." Pete stood at the door of his apartment, his hands stuck deep into the front pockets of his hoodie. He felt loose, desperate. He felt like screaming, shrieking, he felt like shattered metal and broken glass; they would break even more if they got in that car.

"We don't have to talk about anything. You're just going to talk shit and I don't want to hear the words. What did I tell you? Do what you have to do, but do right by me."

Pete felt anger spike up against the strange feeling of apprehension that was as a concrete column in his chest. He had _always_ done the best he could when it came to Patrick. There was no question about that. Patrick stared at him for a long moment over the red top of the car and then he popped open the door and got in; Pete heard the engine turn over and he sprinted over to it.

"Let me drive!"

Patrick shifted the gearstick into first, releasing the hand-brake and simply gave him an expectant look. Pete stuck his head and shoulders into the window.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Just get _in_. It's going to rain soon, you asshole."

"Let me drive. Please."

Patrick nearly gave in, Pete saw it on his face; then, as clear as reading a book, he saw Patrick remember the argument they were having and like the stubborn piece of _shit_ he was, he gave a little gas to the engine and eased up off the clutch just a bit. The car inched forward and Pete slipped back out of the window, all flailing sharp limbs.

"Fine!" Pete felt like he was forgetting something important as he opened the door and sat sullenly in the seat, something about this car and the rain that was now starting to sprinkle down; there was a tug at his memory, faint yet insistent like a desperate scream from few roads away. "Patrick...let's not talk about her, okay?"

From the flash in Patrick's eyes, they _were_ going to talk about her. His temper rocketing, Patrick set off a little too fast down the winding road as the rain began its severe fall.

*  
 _Love vanquishes time. To lovers, a moment can be eternity, eternity can be the tick of a clock.  
\--Mary Parrish_

 _April 27, 2006  
9:43 pm_

This headache was the very worst one so far, but Pete had this feeling that if he could just bear this pain, it would be worth it. It was Patrick's birthday today and if he was here, there'd be laughing and hugging; maybe some slow amused kisses in the closet, because Pete was a bit of a purist.

 _Most times I love you_.

He struggled through the burning ache in his head, breathing in shallow gasps.

 _You always hurt the ones you love_.

He felt the pain creep down his body and bit back a cry. The world was slipping away into black, but he had to slide faster, go further, go _back_ more.

 _Come back to me_.

*

 _They say that time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself.  
\--Andy Warhol_

 _February 22, 2006  
7:15 am_

Pete burst into Patrick's room, feeling as if he had run a million hours and not just from the other room. Patrick turned over sleepily, a comforting lump underneath the quilt he insisted on buying because he liked the air conditioning set high while he was burrowed contentedly under the covers. Pete looked on the messy bedside table and found Patrick's car keys; he took them up and stared at them.

Then he opened the window and tossed them into the small garden below.

"Pete?" Patrick sat up in bed, his hair standing on wispy end. "Is it time?"

"No. It's not time." Pete clambered into bed with him, wrapping his arms tightly around Patrick' s sturdy frame. Patrick pulled back a little and looked in his face, his eyes still sleepy. "It's never time."

"What? Okay, it's really too early for--"

"I don't want her. It's you I want. I'm sorry about the fucking party last night, I'm sorry I didn't come in here to apologise sooner, it's going to rain today and I'll do right by you, whatever the _fuck_ that means but please. Please. Come back to me."

There was a long confused silence and Pete was shivering against Patrick, his face buried into that warm pale neck. He felt something fold in on him, his whole entire world seem to go into a slow dark slide, but Patrick's hands were suddenly in his hair, stroking the jagged edges, pulling him down until they were flat on the bed, wrapped up in each other.

"Hey." Patrick kissed his jaw. "Hey, kid, how they shaking?"

Pete never felt like sobbing before, but he was a hitched breath away from it.

"Come on." Patrick soothed. "I'm still here."

 _fin_   



End file.
